The Name That Changes the Room
924 Words
The name sits between us like a live wire.
I don’t repeat it. I don’t need to. It’s already echoing inside my skull, bouncing off walls I didn’t know were hollow. My first instinct is denial, loud, frantic, almost laughable.
“That’s not possible,” I say.
But my voice betrays me. It cracks in the middle, like it already knows I’m lying.
You don’t push. You don’t argue. You just watch me the way people do when they are waiting for a wave to break, not if, just when.
“They were there,” you say gently. “Not during. But after. Close enough to notice the change.”
“No.” I shake my head, stepping back like distance might undo the truth. “They would have said something. They would have”
“They did,” you interrupt. “Just not to you.”
That’s when it lands.
Not like a slap.
Like a slow collapse.
Images rush in uninvited, not memories, but moments. The way their eyes lingered too long when I went quiet. How they brushed off my nightmares like phases. How they were always a little too eager to change the subject whenever I asked about that year.
I feel sick.
“They told me I was imagining things,” I whisper. “They told me I was dramatic.”
You nod once. “They convinced themselves that if you forgot, it meant you were healed.”
I press my palm flat against my chest, like I can physically hold my heart in place.
“So they watched me struggle,” I say. “Watched me hate myself for reactions I didn’t understand. And they said nothing.”
Silence answers.
That silence screams.
I sink back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted in a way sleep could never fix. My hands shake again, but this time it’s not fear. It’s rage, cold, controlled, finally awake.
“They don’t get to decide what healing looks like,” I say.
“No,” you agree. “They don’t.”
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I don’t have to check the screen to know who it is.
The universe has jokes, apparently.
I stare at the phone like it might bite me. My pulse pounds in my ears, loud enough to drown out logic.
“They are calling,” I say.
You don’t tell me to answer. You don’t tell me not to.
“You don’t owe anyone access to you,” you remind me.
I pick up the phone anyway.
“Hello?”
My name falls from their mouth like nothing has ever been wrong. Like they didn’t help bury a truth that clawed its way out years later.
“Hey,” they say warmly. “I was just thinking about you.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
“Funny,” I reply. “I was thinking about you too.”
A pause.
“You okay?” they ask. “You sound… tense.”
I glance at you. You give me a small nod, not encouragement, not restraint. Just presence.
“Do you remember that year?” I ask into the phone. “After everything changed?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Of course,” they say carefully. “Why?”
“Because I don’t,” I answer. “But my body does.”
Silence crashes into the call like thunder.
“I know,” they finally say.
There it is.
The confirmation hurts worse than the suspicion.
“You knew,” I say flatly. “And you let me believe I was broken.”
“I was trying to protect you,” they say quickly. Too quickly. “You were already fragile. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
My hands curl into fists.
“You don’t protect someone by lying to them,” I snap. “You protect them by standing with them.”
“I was scared,” they whisper.
“So was I,” I reply. “Every single day. And I was alone.”
The words hang heavy between us, irreversible.
“I can’t do this right now,” they say. “Maybe we should talk later.”
Later.
Always later.
“No,” I say. “You don’t get to postpone this. Not anymore.”
They exhale shakily. “What do you want from me?”
The answer comes easily.
“The truth,” I say. “All of it. Or you lose me.”
Silence again. But this one is different. This one is deciding something.
“I will tell you,” they say quietly. “When you are ready to hear it.”
I hang up before they can say anything else.
My hands are shaking again, but my spine feels straighter.
“You did good,” you say.
“I don’t feel good.”
“You feel real,” you correct.
I nod. My throat burns.
“I’m scared of what comes next,” I admit.
“That means you are moving forward.”
I look at you, really look, and realise something new.
You are not here to save me.
You are here to make sure I don’t disappear again.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that forgetting wasn’t the mercy I thought it was.”
“No,” you agree. “It was a pause.”
Outside, the city hums on, oblivious. Inside me, something ancient and furious is waking up.
And for the first time, I don’t want it to go back to sleep.
- Writer
